I was in first grade. An unfinished math test is lying on my desk. I was bored, so I started scribbling in the margins, pretending that the marks were the secret language of the math problems, and only I could decipher them. I knew that I could solve the problems, but I lost interest in them. I could complete any work that you set in front of me, assuming that I did not get bored before I finished. The teacher collected all of the papers, and we had some playtime. She graded the tests, and handed them back. I took my paper, and immediately put it in my backpack.
Later that day, I was home, and my mother was sorting the mess that I refer to as a backpack. She eventually sees the math test, scribbled upon, and hardly any work finished. In blue marker, a large number 41 is written and circled on the paper. “[Evilsqirrel],” she says. “Could you explain why this is not finished?”
“I got bored,” I reply.
“That is no excuse for not completing it. Could you tell me what this problem equals?”
“Forty-nine.”
“Okay, what about this one?”
“Eighty-one.”
She stares at the paper, almost looking dumbfounded that I knew the answers, but did not write them. “Okay, [Evilsqirrel]. Go to your room, and watch some T.V.” she says. I rush to my room, eager to watch my favorite show, “Dragonball Z”. The show was action-packed and involved protagonists with extreme amounts of power fighting antagonists with an equal amount of power. About halfway through the show, my mother walks into my room.
“Come on, [Evilsqirrel]. We have to go somewhere,” she says.
“But mom, Dragonball Z is on!”
“It will be on another time, so let’s go.”
I reluctantly follow my mother to her car, and we head to a destination unknown to me.
We arrive at a doctor’s office and sit in the waiting room.
“Mom, why are we here,” I ask.
“We are here for a checkup,” she says.
“Okay, then. What are they checking?”
My mother turns to me and says, “They are going to check you for a special disorder.”
I stop asking questions and we wait for the doctor. The room is different from a standard doctor’s office. It has comfortable chairs, it does not smell like most doctor’s offices, and relaxing music is playing.
“Mom,” I say.
“Yes, dear?”
“What doctor is this doctor? He does not have a regular doctor’s office.”
“He is called a Psychologist. He studies how people behave.”
A doctor that studies how people behave? I have never heard of anything like that.
A door opens, and a man in a collared shirt and slacks steps out.
“[Evilsqirrel], Time to come on back,” he says.
I stand and proceed to walk towards the door.
“Follow me,” says the man in the collared shirt.
I follow him into a small room with a square table in the middle. The lighting in the room is very dim, and the only sound is the waiting room’s music.
“Sit down, [Evilsqirrel]. I have some questions to ask,” he says.
I sit down, and he sits on the other end of the table. He proceeds to ask me all sorts of questions about almost everything that I have done. The test drags on for what felt like hours. Eventually, he stands up.
“I will be right back,” he says.
I wait for a few minutes, and he returns with my mother. She sits next to me, and the man in the collared shirt sits in the same seat as he did before.
“Mrs. [Squrrel], I believe [Evilsqirrel] has ADD,” says the man in the collared shirt.
What is ADD? Is that bad? Am I going to die? All sorts of burning questions immediately come to mind. As much as I want to ask them, my mom always said that it is rude to interrupt people, so I decide to wait until we are in the car to ask questions.
The collared man writes something on a piece of paper, and hands it to my mother.
“I am prescribing Strattera to help him stay alert.”
My mother nods, and we leave.
Once we are in the car, I ask, “Mom, what is ADD?”
She replies, “It is a problem with your brain where you have trouble focusing.”
I have trouble focusing? I thought I could focus just fine.
“Are we going home now?”
“I have to pick up your medication first.”
We stop at the pharmacy and pick up the medication. We then go home.
When we finally came home, my mother took the pill bottle containing my medication, and opened it. She carefully take one pill and sets it on the counter.
“You have to take your medicine once a day, Right before you go to bed. You take it by putting the pill in your mouth, and drinking some water. Take your medicine, please.”
My mind is racing. What if I do it wrong? What if the pharmacist put in the wrong medication, and it is actually poison? I take a breath, put the pill in my mouth, take a sip of water, and swallow. I calm down, and I take a breath.
“See? It’s not so bad,” Says my mom.
“No it was not,” I reply.
“It’s time for bed now. Go to sleep.”
“Okay, mom.”
I walk to my bed, lay down, and let my mind drift into sleep.

“Wake up, [Evilsqirrel]. It’s time for school,” Says my mom.
I reluctantly awaken and get ready for school. My mind feels unusually clear. I counted the steps on the staircase as I walked down them. I get in the car, and we head to school. I sit and listen to my teacher.
“Okay, class. Today, we are learning about fractions,” she says.
I listen to her as she explained what we were going to learn. I followed through every step. She would explain how to add and subtract fractions, and I would understand. After she finishes explaining, she hands us worksheets. I finish my worksheet first. I walk up to her, and hand her the worksheet. She checks it, and hands it back to me. To my astonishment, the worksheet had a number 100 written on it in red pen. I could hardly contain my excitement.
“Mom, I got a 100 on my worksheet!” I say with excitement.
“You did?” she replies.
“Yes!”
“I am so proud of you! Good work, [Evilsqirrel]!”
I was so happy. I would come home and have report cards that were all “A’s”, and my mom would put them on the refrigerator, which was like being in the hall of fame to me. Not even Michael Jordan made it onto my mother’s refrigerator.
Years of Strattera pass. I am in 8^th grade, and everything starts to change. The medicine was starting to have side effects. I still bring perfect scores, and my teachers idolize me as a model student, but I am showing signs of severe depression and I sleepwalk. I find myself going home and feeling like dying. My mother had to hire a therapist to help me with my depression. My mother had no Idea as to what was causing my depression. Eventually, she checks the side effects of the Strattera. The side effects include clinical depression and sleepwalking.
“We are taking you off the Strattera,” She says to me.
“Why,” I ask.
“It is making you depressed. We are going to the doctor tomorrow to cancel it.”
“Okay.”
I sulk off into my room, and lay down.
The next day, we head to the doctor. We are sitting in the office, waiting for the doctor to come in.
The door opens, and a man in a white lab coat appears.
“Hello. What seems to be the problem,” he asks.
“My son is on Strattera. He is sleepwalking and has clinical depression from the side effects of the drug,” my mother replies.
“Well, I could give him another medi-“
My mother interrupts him mid-sentence.
“No! No more medication! This stuff already messes with his brain! Take him off!” She yells at the doctor.
“Okay, ma’am. I am cancelling your prescription. You can take him off the medicine now, and give him up to a month for the Strattera to fully leave his system.”
“Thank you,” she replies.
We leave the doctor’s office and head home.
The next day, I woke up. The clarity was gone. I could no longer think clearly. I was happy once again. I went to school, and took a math test. I got an %80 on it. My mom put it on the fridge. I made friends, I hanged out at the local skating rink, and I felt like a new person.
I never went back to the medication. I came into high school, and made a few mistakes, failed some assignments, and still held a high academic standing. I am now no longer an academic role model. I am only myself, and I am happy with who I am.